


When the Pale Swan Flies

by EldritchMage



Series: The Swan and the Innocent [2]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bard/Thranduil Modern AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-19 00:27:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29617785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EldritchMage/pseuds/EldritchMage
Summary: A year ago, when a carpenter met a caged bird, his good intentions left despair in their wake. Is he a fool to hope he can atone for his missteps?
Relationships: Bard the Bowman/Thranduil
Series: The Swan and the Innocent [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2176068
Comments: 50
Kudos: 23





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> When I wrote "When the Pale Swan Cries," I was content to leave that story at its painful end. But the hard times we're all in how call for all the hope we can muster. I make no promises about where our characters will end up, but I hope the journey will be easier than what they've endured so far. Keep your fingers crossed!

The last time I visited the Birds of Paradise – yeah, it’s a strip club, and a pretty seamy one, at that – was a year ago, to the day. My wife had just served me divorce papers.

I wasn’t surprised. Relieved, mostly... yet painful, to finally acknowledge that my five-year marriage wasn’t just in trouble – it was dead past resuscitation. My ambitious wife had outgrown her tradesman husband. I hadn’t minded her ambition – I was all for her taking her talent and skills as far as she could, and if she made more money than I did, so what? If she and I were happy together, both doing what we loved, then who made what didn’t matter.

What I did mind was her ambition deciding that I had no ambition.

I do, just not a traditional kind. I’m an old-school fine finishing carpenter/cabinet maker who puts my soul into every piece of wood I shape, be it a kitchen cabinet or a dining room sideboard, to make it the best piece I’d made so far. I loved the lessons that each piece of wood, each mortise and tenon joint, gave me. Each one deepened my understanding, my love of woodworking. It was art and craft in a single, primal medium.

My wife didn’t see much to admire about being a tradesman, even a primal one. My hands would never be mistaken for those of an office worker. Too dinged, rough, and sprinkled with sawdust.

Maybe it wasn’t the sawdust that bothered her. Maybe it was the motor oil. I admit, even the clean stuff isn’t easy to wash off. As for wheel bearing grease...

If she disliked being married to a carpenter, she hated being married to a street motorcycle racer, no matter that I was skilled at both. Neither was close to the suit-wearing, corporate paper shuffler she’d come to think of as her new ideal soul mate. So after months of angry silences, passive-aggressive insinuations, and one-sided tirades about how she loathed how happy I was to get my hands dirty for a living, she finally greeted my arrival home with divorce papers. And off she went to “play canasta,” which was what she called the games she and her suit-wearing, corporate paper shuffler boss indulged in several times a week.

After the initial shock, I discovered that those divorce papers were as much freedom for me as her. I’d owned the house before we’d married, and neither of us had much other property to haggle over, so things were quick to settle. Nine months after she’d slapped those papers down on the kitchen table, it was over.

Which brings me back to the Birds of Paradise.

The Paradise was sleazy, and the patrons were rowdy. The Birds who performed were every gender, not that I cared – I wasn’t there to ogle them. My focus was the TV in the bar, which unlike the sets at the classier clubs, showed at least one NHL game every night. When I first sussed out the games between my wife and her boss, I thought if I stayed patient, she’d eventually find her way back to me. I confined my races to her “canasta nights,” so I’d be at home for her the other nights. When she found my accommodation to be one more thing to despise, I ran every race that’d have me. Afterwards, win or lose, I’d share a glass of Jack with whatever hockey game the Paradise happened to show. The bartender soon discovered that I was a good tipper as long as he left me alone, so he made sure no one bothered me.

Then exactly one year ago, the dancer billed as the Pale Swan had decided I was an easy touch, and alit on the stool next to me before the bartender could wave him off. He’d just come off his stint, so the leather and spangles had given over to plain black jeans, tee, jacket, and boots. He’d been ethereal despite the black clothes, with long white hair, an angelic face, a beautiful, androgynous body, and the saddest eyes I’d seen outside a mirror. Most nights, if anyone had said boo to me, I would’ve left, albeit kindly. But that night, getting divorce papers had made me that easy touch, though not for a quick fuck with a fallen angel. I’d listened to Swan’s patter knowing full well what he’d eventually offer. My counteroffer had surprised him, but he’d agreed despite his disbelief, and off we’d gone to his place.

Once we’d reached his tiny, one-room, efficiency apartment, I’d done what I’d paid him to let me do. I’d made him supper, and given him all the attention and love I’d been unable to give anyone for a long time. He’d been even more lost than I was, and in such pain, and I’d wanted to give him a little of what he needed – tenderness, peace, silence. I’d held him in my arms all night, hoping a gentler touch might leaven his despair.

My illusion had ended abruptly the next morning. Swan had endured too much abuse before we met, and all I’d done was remind him of what he didn’t have, and what awaited him back at the Paradise.

For the next year, every time I shut my eyes, I’d seen his, full of rage, agony, and despair as he’d cursed me out of his apartment. The pain of my ex-wife’s cruelties had been nothing compared to what I’d felt when I thought of how my attentions had scourged a dying angel. I’d wanted so much to give him solace. Had he been right – had I deluded myself, and selfishly used him to make myself feel better?

Gods, that hadn’t been my intent. That had never been my intent.

So a year later, why had I returned to the Paradise to see the Pale Swan again? We were strangers, with nothing in common past despair.

I had no answer.

It was early as night owls counted time, before ten, no longer a dim evening, but full dark. I was on my bike, but unlike the other times I’d come here, I didn’t reek of cycle exhaust and motor oil – races didn’t run on Mondays. There’d be no hockey game on the Paradise TV tonight, either. The air was damp, but the rain had stopped a few hours ago. I sat for a few seconds once I turned off the engine. Did I really want to go inside? It’d been a year. The lost angel might’ve moved on months ago. If he had, there might not be anyone here who could or would tell me where he’d gone. Maybe he’d died, or found redemption, or at least peace.

Fuck it. I was here. I’d go inside, even if I didn’t know why.

I got off my bike, and unwound the chain that I used to reduce the odds of the bike getting stolen –

“How many times have I warned you? You’re not here just to flaunt your ass on a dance pole eight times a night – you’re also here to provide whatever my customers want, when they want it, however many times they want it. You don’t ever tell them no!”

I scanned the parking lot for the source of the snarl. There, in the back corner. If some drug dealer were about to discipline a user for not paying, I’d get back on the bike and skedaddle before I got dragged into the mess. But the guy making the threats looked like the Paradise’s owner, Neeson. I’d seen that overweight rat in his expensive suit before, sitting at his usual table by the stage with his cronies. I stared into the shadows, trying to make out faces and details. Yeah, it was Neeson, facing two of his enforcers who had some poor bastard trapped between them. Gods, one of the birds was about to get a beating –

When the first blow hit, long, white hair flailed in the glare of red neon.

By the time I registered that, Swan was on the ground, and fists had given over to feet. I jumped back on the bike to rev it up, loud and sudden. The owner and his enforcers scattered like roaches in the glare of my bike’s headlamp, leaving their victim in a heap.

 _Gods, keep the roaches inside, just for two minutes_. I dropped beside the crumpled figure. Even in the shadows, the difference between stage paint and blood was obvious, and bruises likely blossomed underneath both. What if he had a concussion? I didn’t have time to worry – I needed to get us on the bike and away before the enforcers came back to finish what I’d interrupted.

“Give me your arm,” I said, hauling Swan up to a seated position. “We need to get out of here.”

He was groggy, floundering as he struggled to grip my arm, but I got us upright. I looped his arm around my shoulders and half carried, half dragged him to the bike. I got his leg over the bike, and myself on in front of him.

“Hang onto me.” As I started the bike, hands inched around my waist, then clamped together as I headed out of the parking lot. None too soon – one of the Paradise enforcers slunk towards the back of the lot as I disappeared down the road.

I was a block from home when the hands at my waist loosened. I eased to the curb in front of the house just as the body behind me went limp. I caught him, and laid him on the grass before he fell there. In ten seconds, I’d chained the bike. In another twenty, I’d hauled Swan inside and laid him on the sofa. I backtracked to lock the door behind us, then turned on a light to see what needed doing first.

A lot needed doing.

“I’ll get stuff to clean you up. Be right back.”

Unsurprisingly, there was no answer.

I put water into the plastic dish basin, grabbed a handful of clean dishcloths and the peroxide, and carried the lot into the living room. I started with the worst of the blood near Swan’s temple, but I didn’t get a reaction until I’d cleaned most of his face. His eyes fluttered as he looked around. He looked dazed, but his whole body tensed as if he remembered what’d happened in the parking lot.

“You’re safe,” I said quickly. “Neeson and his goons won’t take another shot at you.”

A hazy gaze wandered around and about, eventually landing on my face, but it held more confusion than comprehension. I kept dabbing the smudges and smears as gently as I could.

“Nothing to worry about now,” I said. “I’ll get you cleaned up, and then we’ll see what’s what. Just rest.”

No nod or word of acknowledgement met my words, but Swan lay quietly on the sofa, shutting his eyes as I dabbed and wiped. Baby oil helped me clean off most of the layers of makeup. He looked better once most of the blood and paint were gone, but he was still battered and bruised.

“I’ve got clean clothes for you.”

His eyes tracked to mine warily.

I held up the tee, flannel shirt, underpants, and jeans. “You might have a concussion, so it’d be best if you don’t move too much. I’ll do all the work.”

If Swan had been in better shape, he would’ve told me to fuck off. But he likely had that concussion I suspected, and his head was probably ringing, so he didn’t fight me. I figured out how to get the corset off, and got the tee over his head. It was long and baggy, and covered most of him while I tackled the stiletto thigh boots and G-string. Once I got him out of all the white leather and into a rumpled shirt and jeans too big for him, he looked like a battered teenager who had caught the worst end of a playground fight... until you looked into his eyes. No teenager’s gaze was as ancient and dead as his was.

“I’ll make some tea. You rest, and I’ll be right back.”

His eyelids fluttered – maybe he saw double, or wasn’t fully alert yet. I put the kettle on, collected some stuff while the water boiled, and hurried back to make sure he hadn’t fallen asleep – not the thing to do if he had that concussion. No, his eyes were still open, if barely. I slipped clean socks over his bare feet, and draped a blanket over the rest of him. A few swipes with a comb got most of his hair out of his face. There was so much of it that I gathered it into a messy braid to keep it out of the way. I went back to the kitchen to fetch the tea, a glass of water, and a bottle of acetaminophen.

“Hey,” I called, for Swan’s eyes were shut now. “You can’t go to sleep yet, not until we make sure you’re not concussed. Stay with me.”

I jostled his arm enough to rouse him. When he blinked, I nodded encouragement.

“That’s good. You’ve likely got a hellacious headache, not to mention other aches and pains. I’ve got some acetaminophen for you.”

I shook out two of the tablets, and put them in his hand. He got them into his mouth, chased them down with the water, and looked a little more alert.

“Try a little tea. It’s good and hot. Chamomile, to help you relax. I’ll make you a peanut butter sandwich if you’re hungry. Protein.”

When he took the mug from my hand, he winced, but his hand was steady, and he looked less confused.

“Not hungry.”

“Even better – you’re talking. Is anything broken? How’s your vision? How many of me do you see?”

“Nothing’s broken. My neck hurts. And I see just one of you.”

I nodded understanding. “Getting kicked in the head will do that. I hope they didn’t take too many shots at you before I scared them off.”

“More than enough... but not as many as they intended, I think.” As Swan considered me, a faint frown crossed his face. “Why did you stop them?”

“Why shouldn’t I have stopped them?”

“What was in it for you?”

“Neeson’s a rat. That’s reason enough.”

A hum of agreement, though maybe not acceptance. He considered me a little more. “The world is full of rats. Why were you so interested in that one?”

“I wasn’t. You likely don’t remember me –”

“I remember. Chicken soup and grilled cheese.”

“A year ago, yeah.”

“Just a year? It seems longer.”

“A year I’m glad is over.”

Swan’s gaze sharpened. “Ah. The canasta wife. Gone, yes?”

“Gone, and unlamented.”

“No one to complain about your motorcycle racing, or your visits to the worst strip club in town to watch hockey games.”

I arched an eyebrow. “I’m surprised you remembered all that.”

His eyes fell to his mug. “I remember that I treated you like shit. I’m surprised that you didn’t consider Neeson’s attentions just desserts.”

“I heard what he said. I can figure out what he didn’t say, too. Some lowlife wanted to inflict something no one should have to endure. When you said no, Neeson took exception.”

Swan pulled the blanket closer, revealing that my guesses had been spot on. “So now it is a year later. There is no hockey game tonight, yet you come back to a cage full of fallen doves. Why?”

I could’ve lied. Said I was just passing by and happened to see what’d happened in the parking lot.

I’d had my fill of lies.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But... I... thought long and hard about what you said, that I’d used you to make myself feel better. I’m sorry if that’s how I made you feel. I had only good intentions a year ago, but as they say, the road to hell is paved with good intentions. I’m sorry if I did harm.”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“You don’t owe me anything, either.”

“I will ask for a plastic bag to hold my clothes, and then I will go. I won’t impose on you longer.”

“You’re in no shape to go anywhere. You’ve likely got a concussion. You barely held onto me on the way here, so you likely wouldn’t be able to if I were to ride you home. You can’t walk home in socks, or those spike heels, either. You need to rest, and you need someone to watch over you while you rest.”

Swan sat up, but he must’ve hurt badly enough that he quickly sank back against the sofa. “It seems I’m not in a position to refuse.”

Those words were uttered with such distaste that I winced. “I’m not Neeson or his rats. I don’t want anything other than to make sure you’re okay.”

He looked at me as if I was too alien to understand. “Why?”

I sighed. “Gods, you’re as leery as a feral cat, you know that? I get it – trusting anyone isn’t easy for you. You don’t expect a stranger to offer you a hand without demanding something in return. But that’s the situation. Everything I offer comes gratis, without obligation.”

Swan shook his head in mystification. “That’s what you said a year ago. I didn’t understand it then, and I still don’t now.”

My chuckle was self-conscious. “Don’t worry about it. Just drink your tea.”

Whether Swan accepted that or not, he put his mug to his lips and sipped. I followed suit, and after a while I made us peanut butter sandwiches. Swan didn’t speak much other than to ask where the toilet was, so once I was sure he was steady on his feet, I didn’t press – he surely felt like shit, and didn’t need me to badger him. Eventually he drifted off to sleep, so I settled into the armchair with a book, waking him every couple of hours to make sure he was okay. When I finished the book, it was going on three, so I roused Swan one more time, got the same murmur of acknowledgement, and let him drift off again. I stretched out my legs, shut my eyes, and wondered what the morning would bring.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Swan can't bring himself to trust the help offered him, he tries to flee, but changing circumstances aren't so easily dismissed.

When I woke, I couldn’t move. Everything hurt. The john had been more interested in beating me than fucking me. I thought I’d learned to spot such monsters before they spotted me, but obviously not last night. I couldn’t wait to lock the door behind this one, assuming I could get out of bed, assuming I could get him out of bed without risking another beating –

Wait... this was not my apartment, and there was no sadistic john to throw out...

??

Ah. Neeson and his goons. Because I’d told Roy no.

A lot of johns aren’t monsters. Just needy. They pay, they do the deed, and in fifteen minutes I’m back onstage.

Roy was not like that.

He was violent, and tireless, and he paid Neeson a shitload of cash to inflict both on me between sets. At his best, he was content to leave bruises. At his worst.... Last night, the thought of Roy’s heavy fists and heaving body invading mine was past revolting, so I’d told him what else he could do with his cock.

And then had been taken out to the parking lot.

I hadn’t resisted. Maybe a punch or kick would catch me at the right angle, and send me past this.

The first blow was vicious. I saw stars. Amid more flashes of pain, I fell to the asphalt, unable to ward off kicks and punches... Please, gods, please, let me pass out, let me die, take me from this life...

Bright lights flared, the blows stopped, everything blurred. Things resolved into an old sofa in a plain room. So many parts of me hurt, but at least not inside. Someone dabbed at my face, someone with a soft voice and a careful touch.

Getting my eyes open took long, long minutes.

I knew his face.

Was this a hallucination?

If it was, it was a cruel one.

A lifetime ago, this man had paid me five hundred dollars to make me supper, and afterwards...

I wouldn’t remember. I wouldn’t.

The memory poured back into my brain whether I wanted it there or not, of a night when an innocent had held me in his arms as if I were all that mattered in the world. A gentle touch, a caressing voice, giving everything I’d forgotten, wanted, would never have again. For those few hours, there had been no mechanical sex, no grasping hands, no transactions, only quiet and peace. Yet afterwards, afterwards... I’d repaid his kindness with fury, cursing him for being a thief and a liar when he’d been neither.

I had been the liar, to myself as well as him.

A year after that devastating night, I lay on his sofa, clad in his clothes, with his blanket tucked around me. He’d made me tea, a sandwich. He’d watched over me all night, waking me a few times to make sure I wasn’t concussed.

What did one make of such a man?

In the chair by the sofa, the innocent slept on. The room around us told his story – a solitary man with simple needs, with little clutter in his life. The mismatched chair and sofa were close shades of blue, comfortable rather than stylish. A sewing basket by the far end of the sofa by the lamp cradled spools of thread, scissors, and a pair of jeans awaiting repair. A custom motorcycle magazine lay open on the low table in front of the sofa, next to the plate that’d held my sandwich; near my mug was a carpentry magazine. A card depicting a green, heathery landscape was pinned to the painted wall. A small flat screen TV sat atop a chest opposite the chair. The nondescript blue rug was clean as the rest of the room.

The man in the middle of this spare room lay still a few more moments, then roused quietly. His eyes opened, and went to mine. Awareness rose, and a slight smile of greeting twitched his lips.

“Hey. Good morning. I hope you slept well. Though I expect you’re still sore.”

Sitting up was painful, but I managed. “I’m all right.”

“A shower would help. I put out a clean towel and such last night, so help yourself. Breakfast after.”

I should’ve taken a piss, then packed up my things and left, but... a hot shower and a meal would give me time to think about what to do afterwards. So I let him help me upright. He watched silently as I shuffled to the bathroom, not veiling his concern. I shut the door and confronted my image in the mirror. So many bruises... makeup might cover the black eyes, but nothing would disguise the swelling around the gash on my cheekbone. And cinching a corset over my battered ribs... I shuddered. It’d be several days before I’d be able to drag myself back to the Paradise.

Neeson would be furious... but the prospect of a respite, even for a few days, was a relief.

A hot shower eased most of my soreness; I managed the hair dryer without too many winces and groans. I dressed in my borrowed clothing again, and felt better. When I came out of the bathroom, I followed the aromas of hot tea and toast to the small kitchen. This room, too, was small and worn, but clean and calm. My host stood at the stove, tending a pan.

“Eggs okay?”

“Eggs are okay,” I agreed.

“Get the toaster, yeah? Eggs will be up in a minute.”

Bread was already loaded into the toaster, so I pushed down the lever, then gingerly sat at the table set with flatware and dishes.

“Tea’s hot. Help yourself.”

I poured one of the mismatched mugs full, and cradled its warmth in my hands. As I sipped, my host stirred his pan of eggs, then portioned out the contents. He set the plates down, sat opposite me, and started to eat.

“I’m Tal.”

My fork hovered over my plate as I tried to puzzle that out. He was a bit over six feet, perhaps, but an inch or so shorter than I was. “Tall?”

A wry smile. “That’s my name. Short for Taliesin. My Welsh parents were into Welsh poetry.”

“Ah.”

A few seconds went by in silence, then Tal considered me. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to, but a name would be... helpful. Unless you want me to call you Swan, which I’d prefer not to.”

“Why not?”

A shrug. “It’s not your name.”

“It’s my name at the Paradise.”

“It’s not your name anywhere else.”

“Meaning what?”

Tal didn’t rise to my challenging tone. He ate another bite of eggs. “Meaning we’re not at the Paradise, so you can be whoever you want to be.”

Gods, to be anyone but the Pale Swan tempted me to the point of pain, but letting down, letting anyone in, remembering anything before Swan was dangerous. I wasn’t sure I _was_ anyone other than Swan. I should forget anything else but that, because there was no possibility of anything else but that ever being true again.

“Luka.”

Why had I spoken?

When Tal’s smile widened as if I’d given him a gift, shame flooded through me, then anger. I swallowed both down with another bite of eggs.

“There was a Romanian poet named Luka Caragiale.”

I shook my head. “My mother was Russian. My father was American. No Romanians.”

Gods, more speaking! What was wrong with me?

Maybe my discomfort showed on my face, because Tal’s brow wrinkled, and he pointed to the pill bottle on the table. “There’s more acetaminophen if you want it.”

Acetaminophen would not ease the war between want and experience that roiled me. “You’re a generous man.”

“A couple of pain relievers isn’t a big deal.”

 _It is to me._ I shook out two of the tablets and washed them down with my tea, then ate the last of my breakfast.

“That plastic bag I asked for last night... I’d still like to have it.”

Tal’s lips tightened in concern, not anger. “I... won’t tell you what to do, or make you stay here if you want to leave, but you’ve got some recovering to do. I’ve got a spare room you’re welcome to while you get back on your feet.”

“I’m in your debt enough. Better I go home.”

A thousand things flitted across Tal’s face. He was so transparent – I was too hurt to care for myself, I needed protecting, he hadn’t counted obligations as I had. But no one could protect me from what I was. Better I nurse my wounds alone, in my small apartment, as I had done before. So I shook my head.

“I’ll be fine.”

A sigh, but he nodded. “Okay. Let me get a shower, then I’ll take you to your place.”

Tal cleaned up the kitchen while I sat there, then got his shower. He came back into the kitchen with the plastic bag I’d asked for, as well as a pair of battered sneakers.

“I think these’ll fit well enough to get you home.”

They were too big, but they’d suit. I put them on, then shuffled into the living room to stuff the clothes I’d worn last night into the bag. Wordlessly, Tal handed me an oversized hoodie. I didn’t know how to thank him yet again, so I merely zipped up the hoodie, and followed him outside. He didn’t lead me to the motorcycle, but an unassuming, unmarked panel van of some age. He unlocked the doors, I got in, and off we went.

Neither of us spoke in the thirty minutes it took to drive to my apartment, but the silence couldn’t have been more fraught. Tal didn’t want to take me home, and I didn’t want him to, either, but what kind of man would offer to put up a stranger after spending so little time with him? When the stranger was a whore, the motives even of a seeming innocent were questionable, because no one was that innocent. Better to retreat before payment came due for Tal’s generosity.

We pulled into the parking lot. I pulled the hoodie up over my hair, got out with my bag of clothes, and hurried upstairs without a look back because I didn’t want to see Tal leave for the second time. But he pocketed his keys and followed me.

“I just want to make sure you get in okay,” he said when I looked a wary question at him.

“Whatever.” I turned back to my door –

It was ajar.

I never left it unlocked.

“Someone’s been here,” I said.

“Let me.” Tal edged past me to toe the door open.

Whoever had come and gone, leaving my things strewn everywhere – Neeson must’ve sent his goons. He was furious because I’d avoided the worst of his punishment, then disappeared before he could complete the job.

“ _Suka blyad_.” I went straight to my miniscule closet, groping in the bottom for the lockbox I kept cached under the floor. My life was in that box – my cash, my cellphone, my birth certificate, my Social Security card. If it was gone –

It was there, and unopened. The key I’d hidden behind the clothes bar was still there, too, and I was quick to open it. Relief flooded me – for once, I hadn’t lost everything. I relocked the box and clutched it to my chest.

Tal’s expression was guarded worry. “You can’t stay here, Luka. Please, let’s pack your stuff, and go back to my place.”

If ever the gods had sent me an omen, this was it. Even if Tal wasn’t as innocent as he let on, he wasn’t violent, and I’d manage well enough when he eventually acted the way I expected. I nodded quickly, and pulled clothing from the closet and piled it on the bed. Following my example, Tal wrapped my few kitchen things in a sheet, and folded up the small bistro table and pair of chairs.

“I’ll take everything down to the van. You keep packing.” Out he went with the kitchen stuff. He returned quickly for the table and chairs, then the first bundle of my clothes. I stripped the bed to wrap up the last of my clothes, and thrust the bundle into Tal’s arms. I stuffed bathroom things in a pillowcase, then crammed the saris that had draped the window in after. Not much other than detritus remained. I didn’t mind leaving the mattress, and whatever remained in the fridge could stay there, but I’d miss the old rug I’d dug out of a dumpster –

“Do you want to take the rug?”

“Is there room?”

“There’s room.”

Tal hefted the coiled rug over a shoulder, and I grabbed the pillowcase and my lockbox. Once Tal stuffed the rug and pillowcase atop the rest of my things, we piled into the front seats, and he took us away.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tal tries his best to help Luka settle.

As I drove away, Luka hunched over his lockbox as if it was the most precious thing in the world. It likely was – we’d needed just a scant twenty minutes to pack his bits and bobs, leaving a bare mattress and little else in a space not much bigger than my spare room. Despite his silence and stony expression, he was shaking.

“I’m sorry.”

“It was a shithole. I won’t miss it.”

“Shithole or not, it sucks when rats force you out of your home. At least you’ll be away from them.”

Luka looked out of the window at the scenery. He was likely thinking, _until I have to go back to the Paradise,_ but we had a few days, maybe a week, before he had to deal with that. Even the Paradise wouldn’t dare risk a police investigation if one of its employees appeared as battered as Luka was. Luka was street smart enough not to appear like that, either. Even if he could manage all of his acrobatic dance moves, the rowdier customers would see his physical condition as something they could easily exploit.

Was a week long enough to coax a feral cat out of hell?

Was it even my place to try?

Some people who did sex work preferred it for a lot of reasons – flexible hours and good pay, for example. It was their business, no different than carpentry and cabinetmaking was mine. If they were happy with that, then it didn’t matter what anyone else thought about it. They weren’t looking for a white knight or a do-gooder to tell them how to live their life.

I thought about Luka’s old, old eyes. Maybe dire straits had driven him there, or maybe he’d been lured into it, or maybe he’d gone willingly. Whatever the particulars, Neeson’s attempt to beat Luka into submission didn’t convince me that Luka liked his current circumstances. I wasn’t about to tell him what to do or not do for a living. But if Luka admitted that he was being trafficked or coerced, maybe he’d accept a hand to help him get out.

When we got to the house, I glanced at Luka. “You take your lockbox. If you hold the front door, I’ll get your things inside.”

“I can carry things.”

“The door’s hard to prop open. We’ll get everything in faster if you hold the door.”

Luka gave me an affronted look. “That’s not even a good lie.”

I grinned. “No, it isn’t. The truth is, I don’t mind hauling, if it keeps you from aggravating bumps and bruises.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“I’m sorry to hear it. So the door, yeah?”

Was that a pale, albeit reluctant, smile? “Okay.”

He went to the back of the trunk to take the filled pillowcase. I grabbed the rug, and followed him to the house. He held the door, I hauled, and soon his things were inside. Even in my small living room, they didn’t make a big pile, and Luka regarded them in inscrutable silence. If I were staring at all my worldly possessions heaped in the middle of a near stranger’s living room, I’d probably feel rootless, upended, maybe even abandoned. But offering overt sympathy to my new roommate likely wouldn’t be met with appreciation. I shrugged off my jacket.

“Let me give you the tour of the place, then you can get your stuff snugged away.”

Luka followed in silence. There wasn’t much to see – he’d already been in the living room, kitchen, and bathroom, which left only my bedroom, the spare room, the utility closet, and my workshop that used to be the garage. Luka showed the first sign of interest in the workshop, surveying the rows of woodworking tools, then the Empire period sideboard that took up most of the floor space.

“You’re not the kind of carpenter who builds walls, then. You build furniture.”

“I do both, but I prefer cabinetmaking. I spend a lot less time out in the weather doing that.”

Luka ran a light finger over the carved column on one side of the piece. “You made this?”

I shook my head. “It’s from the sometime in the 1830s. After nearly two hundred years, the glue gets sketchy; the joints get loose; the veneer cracks. I’m restoring it for the owner. I get a lot of restoration work, but I do make my own pieces. That table is mine.”

It was a small, octagonal table, but the top was nice burled maple veneer, cut and mitered into eight triangles, and edged with a darker strip of walnut.

“Beautiful,” Luka murmured, stroking the top. “Such silky wood.”

“Thanks. And yeah, the wood is beautiful. After I cut the pieces for the top, I loved how the seams made what looked almost like fleur-de-lis. That’s what inspired me to make the small iris flower rosettes for the legs.”

Luka angled his head this way and that, smiling when he spotted the bits I’d described. Even bruises barely dimmed how beautiful he was, and not just physically – his expression lit up my workshop like sunshine. I grinned back, encouraged to see his mood lighten. As we went back into the kitchen, he was still smiling.

“I’ve got a few things to move out of your room, but after that I’ll put down your rug. Then you can arrange your things however you want.”

There wasn’t much in the spare room. Once my ex-wife had moved out, I’d moved my things back into the main bedroom, leaving mostly paperwork and boxes of her abandoned tchotchkes that I’d intended to take to the local donation center. The paperwork went into my room, and the boxes went into the workshop. When I came back, Luka was picking through his things. His mood had fallen just in those few moments, and he looked uncomfortable, both in body and mind. What could I say that wouldn’t sound... something? I carried his rug into the spare room, and moved the bed, dresser, and bedside table around until I could unroll it. It needed a good vacuuming, so I dealt with that, then moved the furniture back into place. The bed sheets were already clean, so I added a spare blanket, then straightened the quilt on top.

Luka still sat in the middle of his stuff when I came out of the spare room. “Do you want help to move everything to your room?”

Luka shook his head. “I can manage.”

“If you want to shift the furniture, go ahead. However you want it is fine.”

“Thanks.” He gathered up one of the unopened bundles with ginger care, and took it into the spare room. I resisted the urge to grab another, but I followed him as he set the bundle on the bed. He looked around. “This is nice.”

“If you have stuff to wash, you know where the washer and dryer are. And if you want to hang your saris at the windows, I’ve got stuff for that.”

“Maybe later,” Luka demurred.

“Okay. I’ll leave you to it. And, um...”

He met my eyes. “Yes?”

“This is your room for as long as you stay. I won’t come in here, but the door does have a lock on it. You won’t offend me if you use it.”

Luka was inscrutable, so I didn’t know whether I’d irritated, alarmed, or reassured him. Maybe the best thing to do was give him space to adjust without me hovering.

“I’ll be in the workshop. I’ll make lunch in a bit, if you’re interested.”

I got a noncommittal nod in reply, so I left Luka with his things.

Gods, this was awkward.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luka's move unsettles him more than he expects.

I should’ve felt like the luckiest man in the world – I’d jumped out of a dingy, crumbling apartment, and into a clean, decent room in the house of an innocent who was eager to take care of me. Maybe Tal would feed as well as house me, so staying here wouldn’t cost me a cent. And maybe, for a couple of weeks, I’d be free of everything associated with the Paradise – Neeson, Roy, the grimy hands that grabbed and clawed, all of it.

Maybe I could stay away long enough to figure out how to leave the Paradise for good. With any luck, no one from my old apartment complex had recognized me in Tal’s hoodie, and they certainly didn’t know Tal – maybe they’d assume we were just two maintenance men clearing out a derelict apartment. And maybe Tal’s house was too far away for anyone from the Paradise to find me. Tal hadn’t gone into the club last night, so who would associate me with a man who hadn’t visited in a year?

For the first time since the circus had folded, I’d landed on my feet.

Why didn’t I feel more elated?

It wasn’t as if I intended to rob Tal, not that he had anything worth taking, other than woodworking tools, which were of no use to me. All I wanted was to sop up a little gravy for a couple of weeks. It’d be easy – just milk my bruises and bumps. Tal had offered this room and likely meals without obligation. He hadn’t even asked me to pay rent or the cost of groceries. I was miles ahead of where I’d been not even twelve hours ago. Considering how many people had used me for the past two years, was it so bad to take a little back, especially from a man so eager to give?

_Why don’t you just ask him for help? Honesty will get you farther than trickery._

_No one helps a whore._

_He already has. Using him means you’re no better than the bastards who used you._

_He’s got ulterior motives, just like everyone in this world. Just wait – he’ll be coming through that door soon enough, and not to bring you bedtime cocoa._

_You are such a piece of shit –_

Swallowing a curse, I bolted out of the room –

And immediately doubled over. Gods, at this rate, I wouldn’t need to fake anything. I wrapped my arms around my ribs until they stopped burning. I shouldn’t have moved so fast. Thank the gods that Tal hadn’t seen –

Wait... hadn’t I wanted him to see me like this, not thirty seconds ago? And what if he’d seen how slow and clumsy I was at getting my stuff out of the living room? Wouldn’t that have helped my story along even more?

Why didn’t I like thinking about that?

I got everything piled next to the bed. That didn’t leave much room to walk around, so the next step was to get the clothing into the closet and the chest of drawers. I bet there wouldn’t be a single hanger in the closet, which meant I’d have to do without, or ask for some. Gods, I hated this, hated this. Was it any wonder I wanted to exaggerate my aches and pains? That’s what I had to do, every time, and even so I still had to beg just for the basics. I yanked open the closet door –

The clothes bar must’ve held thirty hangers.

Why did that put a lump in my throat?

I climbed over the bed, slammed the door shut, and locked it. I didn’t want to think, to feel, anything –

I crawled into the middle of the bed, pulled the quilt over me, and shut my eyes.

* * *

I don’t know how long I slept, or if I really did. But at some point, a soft _tap, tap, tap_ sounded at the door.

“Luka? I’m making lunch. Do you want some?”

I didn’t answer. My stomach was in a knot, and not from hunger – I was still angry at myself. I turned over to keep watch on the doorknob, to see if I had a reason to be angry at Tal, too.

“If you don’t want to eat now, just come out when you’re ready. There’ll be stuff in the fridge.”

Steps retreated.

He never touched the doorknob.

I didn’t know if that made me feel better, or worse.

* * *

I fell asleep for real after Tal knocked on my door, because when I roused, the room was dark. I sat up, and switched on the lamp. The clock beside the bed read just after four-thirty, so it wasn’t as late as I expected. I felt calmer, so tackled the mess that clogged the floor between the bed and the chest of drawers. There wasn’t much to hang up. Better to put my Paradise things in the drawers where they’d stay hidden, and save the closet for normal clothes. Corsets, fishnets, garter belts, G-strings, and bralets filled the big bottom drawer of the chest; both pairs of stiletto boots went in the next one up. One small drawer got underwear, and the other got socks. My jacket, a few pairs of jeans, and six or seven tees and long sleeved shirts went on hangers, then into the closet with my sneakers and lugged boots. All that remained was my bundle of kitchen things, and toiletries. The kitchen stuff went in the last empty drawer. I put the shampoo, pair of towels, and toothbrush and paste atop the dresser; maybe I’d put them in the bathroom later.

Stuff put away; floor empty. I dressed in my own clothes, and felt better. I folded up Tal’s clothes into a neat packet and left them by the towels; I’d wash them and return them to Tal in a day or so.

When I folded the quilt back over the pillows, there was my lockbox. I fished the key off its chain around my neck, and unlocked it. Seeing the wad of cash reassured me that I still had funds to fall back on. Seeing the Social Security card and birth certificate reassured me that I hadn’t fallen completely through the cracks. And seeing the last item in the box – a small metal figurine of an acrobat – reminded me that I was still a trained performer on more than a dance pole. For the first time in a long time, I felt more hopeful.

Figure back in the box, and the box stashed... where? There weren’t any loose floorboards that would provide me a hidden cache. How would Tal feel if I screwed my box into the closet floor? Even if he understood, it wasn’t something that could be done now. I stuck the box between the mattress and bedspring – how strange was it to have not just a mattress, but a box spring and a bed frame, too?

My stomach growled – of course it did; the clock on the chest read 5:30. I couldn’t stay in here forever, so I opened the door.

The kitchen light was on, so I went towards it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both Tal and Luka deal with internal turmoil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own no rights to Seven-Eleven, or to anything associated with their stores.

I left Luka with his things. Gods, he was such a mass of conflict – first a feral cat leery of anyone who offered a hand, then a frightened refugee, then a defensive kid protesting that he could haul his stuff out of the van despite his battering, then a fellow artist able to appreciate the beauty I saw in wood, then the defensive kid again.

His emotions made such a roiling stew that they cranked mine up, too. I’m usually a deliberate man, but gods, I’d been so impulsive today, just as I’d been a year ago. I hadn’t thought; I’d just hustled Luka out of a bad situation. Sure, I’d have lent a hand to most people, but... what I’d thought I’d seen in Luka’s eyes a year ago had called to me again yesterday.

Now I had a stranger living in my house.

Okay, I was impulsive; I was lonely.

Was I dishonest, too?

A year ago, I’d paid Luka to let me make him supper, and then offer what comfort I could. I would have been content to cuddle and talk – anything quiet and peaceful. But that hadn’t happened. As soon as I’d touched Luka, he’d melted into my arms. He’d craved comfort as much as I had, and I’d gladly given it. In seconds I’d brought him to release. He’d been so beautiful, so open, and his smile had been balm, like I’d helped him put down a heavy burden. I felt as if I’d put one down, too. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want Luka in my arms again.

The biggest mistake anyone can make is to construct a fantasy and then try to force someone else to live in it. I had to remember the next morning of a year ago, when reality had turned my fairytale into tragedy. I had to remember every day of the past year when I rued the harm I’d done.

How was I supposed to navigate? I felt protective towards Luka, not that that was new – my mother had teased me for years about all the stray animals I’d brought home to tend. But Luka wasn’t a stray animal. He was an abused human being, cynical, mistrustful, and depressed. Nothing I would do, say, or offer would “make” him better – I could encourage and offer help, but he had to find his own hope, and then the strength and conviction to pursue better circumstances. It was a hard path he might never choose to take. Even if he did, he might never see me as anything but a temporary convenience, or a potential john. He might be gone in a few days, like the feral cat he resembled.

Gods... I could see my ex-wife roll her eyes as she lectured me about overthinking something yet again. For once, I had to agree with her. Just because I’d picked up impressions from Luka that called to me didn’t mean that I was right about any of them, or that we’d ever have a meeting of the minds.

Still, when Luka had looked at my veneered table, when he’d smiled...

It had been another brilliant moment, another unguarded tease.

There might not ever be another.

I put the kettle on. Maybe a cup of tea would help my unsettled state of mind. I tried to ignore the sounds of Luka shifting his stuff. I tried not to wince when I glimpsed the ginger way he moved his bundles. Ugh, still too many emotions....

Before I hit overload, I took my tea into the garage where silence and a bit of work would sort me out. I was smart enough not to do anything that required too much precision, but there were several pieces of veneer ready to be glued into place, so I got my glue and brush, and worked steadily through the bits. Before long, I was calmer, so I made a quick lunch, just a sandwich and fruit. Luka’s door was closed, and he didn’t answer when I knocked on it, so I didn’t press. He was probably asleep. Anyone who worked the night shift might nap most of the afternoon. I ate quickly, then returned to my workshop. I cut the next batch of veneer, and put the bits into place. From there, one thing led to another, and before I knew it four hours had sped by. The sky was darkening, and the clouds were scudding fast, like children dashing home before evening fell.

Would Luka want supper?

Whether he did or not, I did.

On the off chance that I’d have company, I made a real meal, not just a quick hamburger and raw veggies. Chicken parts, then potatoes and veggies, went on a couple of pans with a little oil and seasonings, then into the oven to roast. I made a salad, and found some canned peaches for dessert. Luka would probably like a few minutes’ notice about supper, so I’d knock on his door again when everything was about fifteen minutes from being done. I just had to chop the carrot –

Luka appeared in the doorway. He was dressed in his own clothes, which fit him better than my stuff did, so he didn’t look so ragamuffin. Still, he looked tentative, so I was quick to smile a welcome.

“Hey. I hope you rested well.”

He nodded. “I did.”

“Good. Supper’s almost ready, if you’d like some. It’s nothing fancy; just chicken and veggies. I’d be glad of the company.”

He sniffed, smiled. “It smells good. I’d like to join you, yes.”

“Yeah?” I grinned. “Great.”

“What can I do to help? Though you have probably done everything already.”

“Not everything. You can put the knives, forks, and spoons out, if you want. They’re in that drawer beside you.”

Luka washed his hands, then dealt with the cutlery. Every now and again he shortened his steps, as though one of his bumps or bruises had made itself known, but for the most part he moved with relative ease. He filled our water glasses while I got the pans out of the oven, then I handed him a plate, and we set to.

We ate in silence for several minutes. I was hungry after my afternoon in my workshop, and Luka seemed to have a good appetite, too. Eventually he looked up.

“This is so good,” he smiled. “I haven’t had beets for a long time.”

Gods, that smile lit up the kitchen just as it had my workshop. I had to work to keep my voice casual. “Not many people like them, but I do. I’m glad you do, too.”

“Everything is delicious.” Luka waved a hand at his plate. “The chicken. The fresh vegetables in the salad – I don’t have them very often, either.”

“What, the veggies?”

Luka nodded. “There isn’t a market near my apartment that I can walk to. Just a Seven-Eleven. It doesn’t have a lot of fresh things.”

“I guess it doesn’t. It probably makes even my cooking look good.”

Luka snorted. “No comparison. But it wouldn’t matter if the Seven-Eleven were a good market. I am not a very good cook.”

“I make mostly simple things. My idea of good cooking is to start with good food and then do as little as possible to it. Then it actually tastes like what it’s supposed to.”

Luka snickered. “Then it must be very hard to make a potato chip. They don’t taste like potatoes at all.”

I chuckled. “Salt and whatever stuff the factory sprinkles on them. I’d rather have a good Russet potato, cooked in the oven for an hour, with a little butter and salt and pepper.”

Luka hummed agreement. “The Seven-Eleven sells potatoes. They’re not bad in the microwave. Done in six minutes. That’s a good breakfast.”

We talked on about food, just easy stuff, such as things we liked and disliked. I liked fish and he didn’t, though he allowed as most of the fish he’d tried was heavily fried, which had nothing recommend it. He liked cabbage and I didn’t, though I allowed that my gran preferred it boiled to death, which had nothing to recommend it, either. As we chatted, we both unwound a little. Luka was a much better conversationalist than I was. I’ve never been good at small talk, but talking to him was easy.

When we were done, he offered to wash the dishes, so he soaped and scrubbed, and I dried and put away. It was nice to have the help.

It was even better to have a peaceful conversation.

When the kitchen was shipshape, we settled in the living room with cups of tea. Luka sat down tentatively, maybe waiting to see if I made “I-vant-to-be-alone” noises. I could’ve bailed and headed off to the races, but the novelty of pleasant company was too good to pass up. I was happy to keep our conversation going, so Luka curled up in the corner of the sofa. I turned on a rare network TV hockey game, and Luka seemed to enjoy the spectacle. He got enamored of one of the hotshot forwards, clapping whenever he did something amazing, which was often.

Maybe this was going to work after all.

* * *

How strange was it to lie in bed at half past eleven? It wasn’t even midnight yet, and I was tucked up in bed! If I were working at the Paradise, I’d have done only two of my eight sets for the night. But here I rested in a real bedroom that smelled of soap and furniture oil rather than decay and spent men. I had a belly full of delicious food that hadn’t come out of a fast food galley or a Seven-Eleven refrigerated case. I was clean, and none of Neeson’s bumps and bruises hurt very much. One of my ribs might be cracked, but it wasn’t broken. My vision was clear and my head didn’t ache, so I didn’t have a concussion. Things were looking up.

That wasn’t the only good news of the evening. Tal had been so easy to lead – easier than most johns. All I had to do was smile, compliment his cooking, help with the dishes, look interestedly at a hockey game now and again, and the man positively glowed. It’d be ridiculously easy to string him along for weeks, maybe months. I’d never have to go back to the Paradise, ever.

Yet...

How he’d arranged the food with such attention, such care...

How he’d listened when I spoke, rather than just waited to talk...

How he made no mention of anything about the Paradise or my side jobs...

He was a thoughtful man, a kind man, and I was a rat for cold-bloodedly using him.

But to never go back to the Paradise... I’d use a thousand men for that, and no apology.

_Don’t be stupid. Be honest with him, and he’ll help you. You’ll have the best chance you’ve had since the circus folded to get out of Neeson’s pit, better than trying to do it on your own. All you have to do is be honest with him._

Honesty required trust. Most of my life had taught me that trusting anyone was the fastest way to get myself fucked over. No matter how thoughtful, kind, and well-meaning Tal was, it was too dangerous to let him get near.

A year ago, he’d done more than get near. He’d caressed me, soothed me, held me...

Comforted me...

No. Not even that was safe to trust. Not even that.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tal decides that honesty is a good policy. How will Luka respond?

The next couple of days went well. Luka was a quiet housemate; his bumps and bruises eased, though the purple mottling was slow to fade from his pale skin, and his ribs were still quite sore. He never went outside, not even into the backyard. That made sense, given that he worked at night doing a physical job – no jokes about what physical meant – so likely slept during the day. His studio apartment wasn’t in the best of neighborhoods, either; given his long, lean body and unusual hair, he likely stayed inside to avoid harassment. He really liked cleanliness – he tidied up after himself, he washed the clothes I loaned him and returned them in a neat stack, he washed the dishes after every meal, he liked to vacuum. He ventured into my workshop a time or two, asking if he could help by sweeping or holding boards or such things. He asked about my bike, but given that a lot of the races I run are illegal, I didn’t offer to take him to any. In fact, I didn’t venture out to race for myself. For the first time in a long time, I had a reason to stay home. I had a new puzzle to solve – the curious person who now shared my house.

I’d never been the life of any party. I preferred a quiet home life. If I absolutely had to go to some event – one more thing I didn’t miss about my ex; she loved big, loud parties – I stayed in the background where I wouldn't be overwhelmed. But staying in the background didn’t mean I sat in a corner and fooled with my phone. I watched people. I sorted out who was shy and who pretended to be, who was drunk and who pretended to be to make time with someone, who told the truth and who lied. It didn’t take me long to find the one or two other quiet souls who would have something interesting to say.

Two people in a house weren’t exactly a party, but Luka gave me lots to observe. I made peace between impulsively wanting to get closer to him and prudently staying away by doing neither. While Luka hobbled about being useful, I stayed friendly and considerate, and kept my nose out of his life. He volunteered nothing, but after three days, I had a pretty good sense of why he offered to do chores, made himself useful, watched hockey games with me. I had a pretty good sense of several other things, too, any one of which was justification for why he acted as he did.

Bottom line – he was sucking up to me big time, which also meant he was lying to me big time.

I wasn’t angry about it. How could I be? His lies weren’t sins of commission; they were sins of omission – he didn’t want to reveal anything that might give me reason to pitch him out. How sad was that, that someone’s straits were so perilous that he felt forced to act that way? If I were that afraid, I might do the same thing. But it was time to clear the air. I didn’t want to start a big conflagration, and I didn’t want to drive Luka away, so I needed the right moment to arise.

We’d settled in the living room after supper again to sip our tea. Lucky me; another hockey game was on network TV, so I had the pregame show on mute. Luka sat at the far end of the sofa, near the sewing basket. He glanced at the TV, but soon found something more interesting about my jeans atop the basket. He unfolded them, and found the worn-out side seam that I hadn’t gotten around to mending. He glanced at me.

“I can mend these for you,” he offered.

“You don’t need to do that,” I protested, but softly. “It’s just a pulled out seam.”

“An easy fix, yes,” he agreed. “It’s no bother. It’ll take no time at all.”

“That’s nice of you,” I conceded. “I’m not the most patient hand sewer, so go ahead, if you want.”

Luka dove into the sewing basket, happy to rummage through the supplies until he found a needle and a spool of blue thread. The pregame show palled in comparison to the spectacle of Luka’s eyes alight as he considered my jeans. He threaded the needle and arranged the fabric with assurance – he’d done this before, and he was good at it. He had the seam neatly closed in minutes, smiling as he folded them up. Then he sorted through the other garments that had been underneath the jeans – a heavy flannel shirt with a missing button, and another with a small hole in the sleeve where I’d caught it on a nail.

“You have the button?”

“In the pocket.”

“Ah.” Luka fished out the button, found black thread, and set to. Hmm, he didn’t just sew on the button; he made a tidy shank so that the thick fabric wouldn’t bunch up and bind when the shirt was buttoned. When he got to the holey sleeve, he matched the thread color to one of the blues in the plaid, and wove a little star over the hole that reinforced it without puckering the fabric.

“That’s well done,” I said admiringly. “You’ve done this before.”

“Many times,” Luka grinned. “I learned when I was in the –”

His smile faded, his voice trailed off, and his eyes held that feral cat look again.

“When I was in... another job.” He dropped his eyes to concentrate on his weaving.

Here was my right moment.

_Please gods, let me find the right words..._

“A happier one,” I said softly.

“What... what did you say?” he stammered.

“Your other job. I know it was a happier one because of the way your eyes lit up. The way you handle the spool, thread the needle, sew such tidy, even stitches. Sewing was something you liked to do in your other job.”

Luka went still. Since I’d waded in this far, I might as well jump in with both feet.

“I don’t take it personally, you know. I understand.”

His gaze was more than wary – it was frightened. “You understand... what?”

“Why you try so hard to make me like having you here. It’s because you don’t want to go back to the Paradise.”

His eyes darted this way and that, and his hands tightened on my shirt.

“I don’t blame you, not one bit. No one could like working there. I wouldn’t. So you hope that if you clean and sew and do such for me, that I’ll let you stay here.”

The feral cat glared out of Luka’s eyes, not sure whether to run or fly at me with claws extended. Before he did either, I held up my hands in placation.

“It’s okay, Luka. I don’t want or need a servant, and you don’t have to scrape and grovel. You’re welcome to stay here for however long, even if you never wash another dish or sew on another button. Not even if you tell me you hate hockey.”

Luka ignored my lame joke about the hockey to grace me with a coy smile as if to say, _yeah, I knew you’d come on to me sooner or later._ “Ah. You have other things you prefer I do for you.”

“I’m not looking for a fuck toy.”

My bluntness brought him up short. His incredulous snort was so forced that my throat ached in sympathy. “I don’t believe you.”

My chuckle was wry. “I know. But that’s okay. We’ll work on it.”

“No one brings a whore into his house out of the goodness of his heart.”

“I’m not convinced you’re much of a whore. A victim of bad circumstances, more likely.”

“Don’t you remember? We met because you paid to spend the night with me.”

“I paid to remind myself of better times when I could care for someone, which is fitting considering that you didn’t keep my money.”

Luka stared at me warily, but the quick way he swallowed told me how nervous he was.

“‘You can’t make me care.’ That’s what you said as I left your apartment. But I did. I reminded you of better times, too, before evil people took advantage and abused you. Better times when someone cared about you, when you didn’t work at the Paradise, when you didn’t have to solicit on the side. You didn’t want to cast a pall on those better times by taking my money.”

Luka’s eyes closed and bowed his head. Even though his gaze was downcast, his shoulders hunched and he crumpled my shirt in his hands. Gods, how easy it would be to sit by him, put my arms around him, and hope that he’d take solace in the touch of another. But Luka had been sexually abused, so touch would be problematic. Instead, I got out of my chair, picked up his mug of tea, and knelt beside him. I put the mug in his hands gently.

“It’s okay, Luka. It will be. You’re afraid and can’t bring yourself to trust me, but I know you’re a good man. The only thing I’ll ask you to do is to help me help you. Between the two of us, we’ll fix it so you won’t have to go back to the Paradise.”

Luka clutched the mug and gulped down half of the tea. He drew a shuddering breath. When he blinked rapidly, I pretended not to notice that his eyelashes were wet.

“We could burn it down,” he graveled, trying to smirk.

I sat back on my heels to grin. “Tempting. But that’d land us both in jail, so better we think of something else, yeah?”

He sat there blinking for a few more seconds. But eventually, he fixed a half scared, half hopeful look on me.

“I still don’t understand... I’m no one. Why do you do this?”

“I guess... for the same reason I went with you a year ago. I’d been shat on, so I tried to do some good. But I didn’t do good; I did harm. I don’t like doing harm to anyone, not even assholes like my ex-wife. I figured it out – the reason I went back to the Paradise to find you last week was to make amends.”

“I still don’t understand. You owe me nothing. There is no debt to pay.”

“What anyone may or may not owe anyone else doesn’t matter. Yeah, we’ve both been shat on, but what’d be the point of us shitting on someone else? It’d just perpetuate the agony, and make us no better than the rats who shat on us. Let’s do something radical instead. We’ll defy the assholes and make something good for ourselves.”

Luka hummed. “But... you say you will help me leave the Paradise. What good is there for you in that?”

His voice had such a wondering tone, not at all scornful or incredulous.

“It’s been good having you here. Someone to talk to. Someone to share the road with, even for a little while. That’s enough for me.”

Gods, I hoped that didn’t sound needy. Or pathetic. Or like a con. It was truth, if not all of it. Would Luka read it that way, or would the feral cat come out spitting?

Luka thought about it. He thought about it a long time. Then the feral cat retreated back to the wilds, and the man underneath nodded.

“Okay. We get me out of the Paradise, and I am your friend.”

“I hope I’m your friend, too. But yeah.”

Luka’s lips curved up in a slight smile. “I get the better end of this deal. You need to ask for more.”

I grinned. “I’m a simple man with simple needs.”

“Maybe I will sew more buttons. I like doing that. You don’t. And I like to vacuum. You don’t like that, either. To make it more fair.”

“That’d be great. I’ll take it.”

“Okay. We can shake on it, yes?”

I grasped the hand Luka held out to me. He had a good, firm grip. “We can.”

“Just so you know, I do like the hockey.”

I laughed. “Just promise me you aren’t a Rangers fan. That’d be hard to take.”

“Never.”

“Okay. We have a deal.”

I wasn’t sure if I’d completely convinced Luka, but that was okay with me. It must’ve been okay with Luka, too, because he smiled. It wasn’t the brilliant expression he’d revealed in my workshop, but it was hopeful, and genuine, and supplied all the warmth I needed.

Maybe this really was going to work.

* * *

How to you argue with an innocent? They walk into lions’ dens without qualms, and even the lions are so surprised at their audacity that they are too embarrassed to bite. For the first time in two years, I felt hopeful – please gods, please don’t let this be a mirage, a delusion, a tease. Don’t let this be desperation to trust in the first kind words I’d heard in years. Let Tal’s straightforward honesty be the truth that convinced me to set aside fear and despair.

What kind of man was Tal? Despite my deceptions, he hadn’t gotten angry. He hadn’t thrown me out. He hadn’t even taken advantage of my crude allusion to sexual favors – he’d shot that down with blunt words that took my breath away. He hadn’t just talked about repaying evil with kindness – he’d already done so, and wanted to continue. And he’d ascribed goodness to me I hadn’t deserved. A year ago, I hadn’t returned his money so as not to taint happier memories. I’d been so angry at how he’d robbed me of the defenses that let me endure my life at the Paradise. What fool took money for _that_? That would’ve made what he’d done okay, and it most certainly had not been.

Yet... maybe he was right. He _had_ reminded me of better times, and if I’d been wiser I wouldn’t have cursed him, but asked him for help. I might’ve spared us both a year of pain.

So was that my answer? That Tal was a kind and generous man? He was both, yes. But that was not all he was. He was also alone, and lonely. Why else would he offer a lost soul so much and ask so little?

I was not so good as Tal believed, but he had returned hope to me, so I would try to be a good friend in return...

Eh, that wouldn’t be hard. He was very easy to like, and given time I could see myself trusting him.

I wondered...

But no.

Now wasn’t the time to wonder about what might lie beyond that.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tal cleverly persuades Luka to talk about how he came to the Paradise, only to find out that he wasn't the only clever man in the room.

We let things calm while the first period of the hockey game played out. At the intermission, I put the sound back on mute. Luka was content to stay curled on the sofa, so I got up to hit the loo. When I came back, I paused on my way to the kitchen.

“I thought I’d make some popcorn. Do you want some, or anything else?”

“I like popcorn,” Luka’s eyes brightened. “And something to drink, yes? I’ll make tea if you want that.”

“Sounds good.”

He followed me into the kitchen. We flowed easily around each other to assemble our snack, and soon settled back in the living room with a big bowl of the corn and two mugs of tea. I sat in my usual chair, and Luka sat cross-legged by the sewing basket. The intermission blather still occupied the TV, so we munched and sipped without paying attention to the screen.

“That other job,” I ventured casually. “The one where you learned to sew. Would you tell me about it?”

“It was a job I loved very much.” Luka’s smile was wistful, nostalgic, then it widened to something more playful. “I ran away and joined the circus.”

My eyebrows likely disappeared into my hairline. “No shit? You actually were in the circus? As a crewman, making the costumes? Or as a performer?”

“Both,” Luka nodded proudly. “It was a small circus, so all of us had to do many things, so I learned to make the costumes and maintain them. I helped the costume mistress, Madame Simka. She and I were very close, like mother and son. She taught me everything – how to strengthen the seams on a flyer’s costume so that they stretch but don’t break, how to sew on the sequins and rhinestones and feathers, everything.”

“That’s wild,” I said. “Was your family circus people? Oh, maybe not; you said you ran away to join the circus. So maybe you were an orphan?”

Luka shook his head as he swallowed his mouthful of popcorn. “Not an orphan. I will tell you the sad part all at once, so that it’s over and done. My family was circus, yes, but with another troupe. My mother was a free spirit, and she took a fancy to a flyer that didn’t last, but she and my father were good parents even if they didn’t stay enamored with each other. My father taught me to balance on the wire and a little about flying; my mother – she was an acrobat – she taught me to tumble, and so I performed with her and the other acrobats. I learned many things from the rest of the troupe, too – I even rode one of the horses once I learned to balance on their backs. It was a very exciting childhood. I had many circus lessons – tumbling, clowning, gymnastics, other things – but also regular school lessons. We had a classroom on the train for those, for of course every circus child must study just as any other child does. There weren’t many of us, so we got a lot of attention from the teacher. I liked most of the subjects, so I did well and got the diploma at sixteen –”

“‘The diploma?’ Oh, you mean your high school diploma.”

“Yes, yes, that. I learned bits and pieces of many languages, too, because our circus had acts from all over the world.”

“Sounds exciting,” I admitted. “Not sad at all.”

“The sad part came later, when I began to grow up, when I realized that girls held no interest for me, but boys did.”

I winced. “Oh.”

“Oh,” Luka repeated with a fatalistic shrug. “I hid it for many years, but one day...”

He shrugged again, and he didn’t have to describe what had happened for me to imagine. I still winced about the shit that had gone down when a girl and I had gotten caught in high school.

“My mother was... not accepting, and my father, he was... I had to leave very fast when they found out. But I had a little money put by, so I bought a bus ticket, and so got away with a few clothes. It wasn’t long before I found a place with another circus.”

“The smaller one,” I surmised.

Luka nodded. “The circus my family was with was respected, and I had been trained well in many things, so my second circus was happy to take me on. They were more... progressive, and didn’t care who I liked or didn’t like as long as I did my job and caused no problems with the other members of the troupe. It was a good time, though hard to miss my family. That’s why I grew so close to Madame Simka. She liked women, you see, so she understood.”

Hmm, Luka didn’t seem reluctant to answer my questions, so what was the harm of continuing the conversation? “How old were you when you left the circus your family was with?”

“Eighteen.” Luka grinned. “A good age, eighteen. Legal, you see? No one could claim I was a runaway and force me to return to my family’s circus. No one could claim I was underage when a boy and I spent time together. I think you understand this part, though maybe not just the boys. I think you like girls as well as boys.”

Luka had slipped that in so smoothly that I gaped for a second, then laughed. “Okay, you’re gay, and you want to know what my preferences are.”

“Just to be fair,” Luka grinned mischievously. “So that I am not the only one who reveals secrets.”

“Of course,” I grinned back. “Okay, just to be fair, I have to say that I find most people attractive. ”

“Pan?” Luka’s eyes widened. “Hmm. I had not considered that. You don’t have, hmmm, the roving eye.”

“Gods, Luka; pans aren’t raving maniacs, you know,” I protested with a laugh, “no more than anyone else. Besides, I’m a bit more complicated. Essentially pan, but demi pan. I need an emotional connection before I think about someone that way. If the connection isn’t there, then I have no interest. If it is, then the body mechanics are immaterial.”

Luka cast me an assessing look. “Then...”

“Go ahead, ask.”

“Then I wonder how you ended up in my room a year ago. We had no emotional connection.”

“It was spur of the moment,” I admitted. “But... it’s not quite true that we had no emotional connection.”

A frown washed over Luka’s pale features. “I mean no insult... you were just another potential john to me when I saw you in the bar.”

“None taken,” I nodded. “I knew what you wanted, and normally, I would’ve politely declined and left. But...”

“But?” Luka prompted when I didn’t continue.

I exhaled. I could’ve skipped this part, and it might’ve been better if I did, but something pushed me to be honest. I took another marshaling breath. “Um, I’ve... got some empathic... tendencies, so...”

“So?” Luka prompted again.

My smile was embarrassed. “So when I realized you had the saddest eyes I’d seen in a long time...”

This time, Luka didn’t prompt me to continue. If anything, his expression was so mixed that I couldn’t tell what he felt – conflicted at least, or maybe as embarrassed as I, or maybe disapproving.

“You made the connection yourself, and then you tried to do your good deed,” Luka finally surmised, shaking his head. He tsked. “You shouldn’t tell people such things. They’ll use them against you so you give them what they want.”

“I know what a mercenary looks like. When they try that, that pretty much kills the empathy.”

“So a year ago, I wasn’t mercenary enough to ‘kill the empathy?’” Luka snorted. “I was entirely mercenary. I think your empathy is too strong for its own good.”

I grinned. “Maybe, but you know what they say – don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, yeah?”

Luka chuckled, shrugging agreement.

“So what happened with your second circus?”

Luka’s smile faded. “It was not a fault of mine, or of the others in the troupe. We had no animals – Le Cirque do Soleil showed everyone how it is possible to survive without them, and of course it is very much cheaper when you don’t need to house and feed them. But even so, circuses falter. Audiences no longer come. They like movie spectacles with the outrageous effects. Hah, I wonder how many of them understand how hard it is to actually fly on a rope like Spiderman? Much harder than to draw it!”

“I believe it,” I agreed.

“Still, we did our best. We economized everywhere, but it was no use. If even the great Cirque du Soleil cannot sustain itself, then what are we lesser mortals to do? The owners of our circus fought as long as they could, but even so, perhaps three years ago, we were sold. The new owner was not so scrupulous, so when the money ran out, we were stranded with nowhere to go.”

“Stranded – you mean while you were on the road?”

Luka nodded. “And of course, because of the famous Murphy’s Law – you know this law, Tal? How it says that whatever can go wrong, will?”

I nodded. “Oh, yeah. I know that law, big time.”

“So we knew it, too. We were in the middle of nowhere. They kept a few people on to drive the fixtures in the trucks, I suppose to auction or some such thing, but the rest of us were cut off right there – little money, fewer options. So we tried to get new jobs. Bah, how hard was that? Out in the sticks? Impossible. A few of us managed to get to the nearest big city together – this one. We piled into a tiny room and did our best. But employers don’t care if you’d had ballet and clowning and gymnastics lessons – all that is good for is to let you flip burgers, sweep floors, make beds and clean in a hotel. No one can live on such wages – I know, because I tried. We all tried. I do not drive and have no car, so I cannot work in the suburbs; I must stick to a city where I can walk or take a bus. Gradually, one after another of us drifted away, some to worse places than where I have been. I landed in a homeless shelter, and that is no good, either, because it is temporary at best. So...”

“You couldn’t go back to your family?”

Luka shook his head. He was a talented storyteller, but I hadn’t sensed him threading lies into his tales so far, and I still didn’t. His dejection was sincere, and painful to see.

“It had been a hard break when I left. I wrote, but they never replied. I was not even a ghost they wanted to remember any more.”

“So you had to resort to desperate measures.”

He nodded.

“How bad was it? Did you have to turn tricks first, or did you go to the Paradise first?”

“The Paradise,” Luka leaned back against the sofa and pressed the heels of his hands over his eyes. “I still had some self respect then. Two years ago. At first, I thought it was a good fit for such an oddity as me.”

My eyebrows rose into my hairline again. “An oddity? That’s harsh.”

“But I _am_ an oddity,” Luka waved a hand airily, looking at me as if I were the odd one.

“Um...” I shook my head, looking mystified. “Maybe you mean oddity a different way than I do?”

Luka chewed his lip as he considered me, but then his face cleared. “Ah, of course! I was so busy thinking about the circus that I didn’t tell you my part in it. Perhaps it is a bad word, oddity? I don’t mind it, but maybe I should use a different word... or maybe I should show you, and see what word you choose.”

Luka still sat in his cross-legged position, but he unfolded his left leg and casually arranged it behind his shoulder, then his neck, until his left foot hung loosely against the right side of his chest. At my surprised exclamation, he laughed.

“You see? Oddity not as a terrible person, a hated person, a freak, but an unusual one. When my ribs heal, I will show you how I walk on my hands with my leg like this.”

“I get it – you’re a contortionist!”

As if I’d aced an exam, Luka clapped his hands and pointed both index fingers at the ceiling. “Exactly! I am too tall to be the most adept acrobat, but with so much of me to work with, I learned how to tie myself into all sorts of knots.”

Luka arranged his right leg as the left, and there he sat gently kicking his feet against his chest, grinning as I goggled. He clapped his feet together, then his hands, then wiggled his eyebrows, all the while laughing at my expression.

“Oddity is too mundane a word, Luka. Damned amazing, more like.”

“I did a clown routine with another acrobat where I would hold her hands with my hands, then sneak one foot over my head like this to steal her hat with my toes. She would pretend not to know how I had done it, yes? It was a good joke.”

“It sounds like it.”

Luka extended one foot above his head, toes wiggling as if to pluck at an unseen hat, but his grin faded when he unwound his legs back into his cross-legged seat. He sighed and looked at his hands folded atop his feet.

“So... the Paradise. How did I come to such a place? I knew what a strip club was, though technically the Paradise is not entirely a strip club. They do pole dancing and acrobatics, though they do them, hmm, you’d say... more carnally. That is the only reason I went there, because not all of the dancers remove their clothes. I watched a few times before I approached Neeson, so I knew what I was about subject myself to. It was disgusting to let Neeson stare at me up and down and around, but I had no place to stay, no food. If I had had even a crumb, I would not have tried for such a job. I peeled to my tights and faked my way through dancing on a pole because of all the things I had learned in the circus. I knew how to play to an audience, even this kind of audience, and it showed. So Neeson agreed to have me. He turned me over to his lead dancer who taught me how to work the pole, what to wear, all such things. The pay sucked, but the tips didn’t, and we dancers supported each other, so at times I could pretend I was in a troupe again.”

I shook my head in sympathy. “It must’ve been rough.”

Luka muttered a curse under his breath. “It was fucking hell. Each dancer does eight turns a night, which I expected. I didn’t know we were expected to entertain customers in between turns until after I began to work there.”

“Ugh,” I inserted. “The infamous lap dances.”

Luka jabbed his index finger at his open mouth, the classic _gag me_ gesture. “I tried not to think about it. The tips were incentive, but Neeson took a big cut of those. So one night, when one of the customers offered me money for a blowjob in the toilet, I thought, why not? It was on the sly, and Neeson got none of it. Two minutes, and it was done. Easy money. All of the dancers did it. After a while, I didn’t think about that, either. It just was.”

“Slippery slope,” I offered.

Luka grimaced. “As desperate as I was to get the job, soon I was desperate to get out. So blowjobs led to other things, because other things paid more. I decided I would do such things only until I had a certain amount, enough to gain me a little space to leave, to find a better job. I didn’t think that Neeson would find a way to take a cut out of that, too.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “He decided to pimp you out to his customers.”

“Not just me – all of us,” Luka agreed. “I was saved for one special client, one of Neeson’s close friends. Roy. He was a shithead pig. You and I met a year ago because I ducked through the bar to avoid him. He leaves bruises. For many months, I held him off to once a week, but for the past three months, he’s been unavoidable. Two, three, sometimes more nights a week. Some nights I could not do my last set. One of the other dancers told me that Neeson and Roy had a running bet whether he could keep me from doing that last set, and if he could, he got the price of my set, and so I lost it, as well as any tips I might’ve made. I was in no shape to meet anyone else as I met you, either. I told myself I’d endure it until I had saved my goal, but that had become harder and harder. So last Monday...”

“You’d had enough.”

“More than enough.” Luka’s voice was almost silent. He wrapped his arms around himself as if to hold off Roy’s touch. He glanced my way, then dropped his gaze. “I was lucky you were there. I expected to die.”

“I was glad to be there. I got to do my good deed, after all.”

Luka’s lips quirked up. “So you did. Now my tale is done. To be fair, now you have to tell me a tale – the tale of the canasta wife. How did you come to marry someone who did not suit you even a little?”

Uh-oh. It seemed that Luka hadn’t answered my questions just to hear himself talk. He wanted to hear me talk, too.

Shit.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tal's tale has an unexpected impact.

Oh, Tal met my request for his story with so much tension, so many nerves! If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought that he considered his tale as unsavory as mine, and that I’d react with disgust. Disgust is what I’d expected from him – how could an innocent condone how easily I went from proud circus performer to whore who sucked off perverts in grimy toilets? How could _anyone_ sympathize with that? But he _had_ been sympathetic – his expressions were so open, so clearly pained as I described my fall into hell. I hadn’t intended to tell him half so much – who would willingly confess such shame? But he was a good listener, without judgment or condemnation, but with much compassion. He’d believed me when I said I’d been at the end of everything when I’d offered myself to Neeson. I hadn’t told him the worst of that – I’d never tell anyone how debasing that had been – but I hadn’t had to. He knew. Just from his expression, I knew that he divined all I hadn’t said.

So of course I also knew he was empathetic before he said so. It was so clear in every expression, how he listened, how he offered compassion not just with his spare words, but also his bearing, how he leaned towards me, his soft voice, how he never once glanced at the TV. My tale hadn’t been mere words to him – he’d felt a shadow of all I’d felt as I told it.

Tal’s tale could never be as bad as mine, so why was he so reluctant to tell it? That was easy – he was a private man who hated the spotlight. As much as I had loved being the focus of attention in the circus, he shied away from it. I’d have to be careful when I listened – if he interpreted an ill-timed chuckle as ridicule, he’d close himself up as tightly as my lockbox.

Maybe I wouldn’t have as hard a job as I expected. After all, he’d been comfortable enough to reveal his sexual preferences. Thank the gods he was a demisexual. An innocent endowed with so much empathy needed some defense against a harsh world.

Tal still looked flustered at my request, so I let him settle while I went to the toilet. When I came back, he still looked so edgy that I felt sorry for him. Gods, how strange was that, to feel sorry for someone else? Should I feel guilty because it was strange, or encouraged that I felt it at all?

“You look like an animal put into a cage.” When Tal flicked a look at me, I shrugged. “That isn’t good. You don’t have to tell me anything.”

Tal mulled that, then shook his head. “You were honest with me, so I want to be honest with you. There isn’t that much to tell. Mostly, I was stupid.”

I managed not to snort. I ventured, “You are not a stupid man, Tal. Never would anyone think you are stupid.”

“Eh, maybe; maybe not. Let’s just say I gained a lot of experience, so maybe I’m wiser now than I was.”

I nodded, but didn’t speak, just kept my eyes lightly on Tal. Either he would talk, or he wouldn’t.

At length, Tal rubbed the back of his neck as if he tried to knead a tight muscle. “You lived in an isolated community for a long time – the circus. I did, too, but it wasn’t the circus. My parents were a couple of bohemian hippies, really into the whole anti-Vietnam thing. I don’t know how familiar you are with that period of history...”

I shrugged. “My schoolwork told me a little. Most of what I know was about the fashion – the clothes, the music, yes? It was very theatrical and colorful and individualistic. The circus did costumes like those clothes once, and the acts used a lot of the music. Very dreamlike, some of it. I remember the one I liked best – ‘Kashmir.’ Very hypnotic. We did a grand pyramid to it.”

“I know that song!” Tal exclaimed. “My Dad loved it, so I heard it a lot growing up.” He hummed a bit of the opening of the song.

“Yes, yes!” I clapped. “How it goes up and up and up? We built the tiers of our pyramid as the music went up. Then we’d collapse it, only to build a different one.”

“I wish I’d seen that,” Tal smiled. Good, he had relaxed a little.

“It was a complex act, but fun. We had very flamboyant costumes – lots of stripes and dots in bright colors. You have likely heard much of the music we used for our show.”

“Likely,” Tal nodded. “Mom and Dad loved it. They didn’t run away to join the circus, but they did run away from the East Coast to just north of here, near Napa, in the late seventies, and ended up staying.”

“Oh, they were not from Wales, then? Immigrants?”

“Both sets of my grandparents immigrated here from Wales. It’s a funny story. My grandparents were originally from towns right next to each other in the old country, but their families never met until they came here and settled in the same Welsh enclave. So my Mom and Dad were born here, and grew up together. They were enthralled by the hippie movement despite being a bit too young, but in a few years, after college, they came here. The hippies were done by then, but my parents still embraced the commune, anti-war, Mother Earth thing. They still live in one of the commune-turned-co-ops up north.”

I nodded. “A good life, I hope?”

“The best,” Tal smiled. “The people were great – a real community, where everyone helped everyone else. Unlike a lot of such places, most families had at least one person working an outside job to help support the commune, so we were economically stable. Everyone also chipped in to keep a big community garden, beehives, chickens, a couple of dairy cows, a herd of goats – all in all, we ate great food long before the organic thing grew popular. I was outside a lot, helping wherever I was needed. It was a peaceful place. That’s when I started working in wood. A lot of the adults did stuff like that, and it’s paid off; these days, a lot of the residents are artists – weavers, potters, various skills like that – which attracts a fair bit of tourist trade. There’s also a great teahouse there, and an organic bakery.”

“It sounds like a wonderful place. If I had lived there, perhaps I would be a weaver or a clothing maker. I might never want to leave. So did you apprentice to one of your neighbors, someone who made furniture or built houses?”

“Not before college,” Tal shook his head. “The high school had a good shop program that I loved. The high school didn’t serve just our neighborhood; it was huge, and pulled kids from all around the county. We had a few rich kids who thought those of us working with our hands were peasants, but I ignored them. I learned a lot of practical stuff. I got my first motorbike and learned in engine repair class how to fix a lot of it. I did okay with the book stuff. It wasn’t my first love, but I did well enough to get into the local community college, and I was able to keep on with my woodworking in the arts school. I caught a tremendous break when I snagged an apprenticeship with one of the local cabinetmakers. I was nineteen, and Señor Vargas was the perfect teacher for me. Very low key; very soft-spoken, but his hands spoke poetry. Watching him taught me more than anything I could read in a how-to book.”

“He was from Mexico?”

“Spain via Texas, actually,” Tal grinned. “His family was originally from Castile, and quite distinguished. He’d tell stories when we had simple stuff to do. He said he was named for the founder of his family, Ivan de Vargas, a knight who fought for Alfonso the Sixth in 1083. I loved working for him.”

Tal’s love revealed itself as clearly as all his emotions did, with a warm smile and relaxed posture. I could see him with his mentor, both of them silent but happy as they worked together, perhaps on a big chest such as the one Tal had in his workshop, or perhaps as they sawed or glued or fitted bits of wood. And surely the workshop was warm and lit with golden summer sunlight, scented with fresh-sawn wood. That smell I imagined clearly, because sawdust had been ubiquitous in the circus rings of my childhood. I liked thinking it was a scent that brought good memories to us both.

Gods, what a sap I was to imagine overly romanticized summer memories!

“He is a great man, then,” I observed. “A true craftsman, like my Madame Simka. Though her workshop didn’t smell of wood. Fabric instead. Cotton smells one way, Lycra another. And the fabric dyes. Many different smells.”

“But all good ones,” Tal smiled.

“Mostly,” I conceded, wiggling my fingers up and down, meaning yes-and-no. “Some of the dyes smelled horrible.”

“I bet you smile even when you smell the bad ones, because they remind you of good times.”

“True,” I agreed. “So I smile in memory first, then make the face.”

Tal chuckled. “Like I do when I smell certain finishing compounds. Too pungent a smell.”

“Yes, yes, the same. So like my childhood, yours sounds exciting and full of promise. How did the canasta wife manage to interrupt such a vision?”

Tal’s expression went sober, then pained. “Oh... that happened in community college. My Mom and Dad suggested that I take a business class, to help me learn how to open my own shop. It was a good idea... only Sarah was in the same class.”

“What was she like, Sarah?”

“Oh, she was a stunner. Thick dark hair, a luscious body, the most perfect smile, and the sweetest personality. And smart as all hell.”

“Really?” I sat back in surprise. “I expected a dragon lady.”

“That came later,” Tal said with chagrin. He wrung a hand over his face. “Gods, I still feel so stupid about it. I should’ve known better.”

“What should you have known better?”

Tal grimaced, swallowed. “Do you know what a narcissist is?”

I shook my head.

“It’s someone who’s so self-centered that everything beyond their eyeballs is mere television. Just a shit game they can play without consequences. Other people aren’t real to them, so they don’t have to tell the truth, keep promises, or care about what anyone else needs. The world exists only to cater to them.”

“And Sarah was this narcissist? I’m surprised that you didn’t see through her right off. You’re very perceptive.”

Tal winced. “Yeah, that’s what a lot of people said. It’s what I told myself, too, how stupid I was to miss it.”

Oh, _suka blyad_ , I’d thought to compliment Tal’s perception, only to worsen his sense of stupidity! “Since you are not a stupid person, then she must have been very wily to fool you. And very dishonest.”

Tal gave me a small smile that appreciated my attempt, but didn’t necessarily believe it. “She wasn’t honest, not at all. But I should’ve been a lot more skeptical along the way. It wasn’t until after she moved out that I did what I should’ve done a lot sooner – I read a lot of books. They were eye-openers. I figured out about her narcissism. I also figured out that I’m the classic example of a narcissist’s favorite prey – empathetic, quiet, doesn’t like to make waves, does like to please.”

Tal’s words, so full of self-recrimination, were painful to hear. “What did she do?”

“She played me like a harp,” Tal growled. It was the most overt anger he’d revealed, and more painful to hear than his self-recrimination. How he had beaten himself over this Sarah! I knew almost nothing about her yet, and already I hated her. How could anyone be so cruel to my innocent?

“When a narcissist picks a target, it starts slowly. They’re charming, they flatter you, they set you up to think you’re something special. And you are – you’re the doormat they’ll use to wipe their shoes. But at first, it’s wonderful. Sarah let me borrow her class notes once when I was sick, then asked me to work with her on one of the class projects. She was so complimentary, so thrilled at every suggestion I made. We did well on every project we shared, too. So after the class completed, we still got together for meals, to hang out. And then one thing led to another, and we became lovers. She charmed the pants off my family. She was so excited about my plans for opening a shop. I bought all of it from head to tail, so six years ago, we got married. Only then, once she had me hooked, did things change.”

“How did they change?”

“Little stuff at first. She sort of slipped in how wonderful it’d be if I took all I’d learned and became an antiques dealer. Think how much more money I’d make if I catered to rich collectors, who could introduce me to even richer collectors, and onward and upwards we’d go. I did look into it, but I wasn’t interested in dealing with a lot of the pretentiousness there can be in the antiques world. Proving provenance of any one piece can be trouble, too. And nowhere in any of it was I going to make my own pieces, which is what I most wanted to do. So I explained my reasoning, and how it wasn’t what I wanted to do. She didn’t like that. So started the whole spiral of subtle digs, the gaslighting, passive-aggressive arguments you can never win – ‘How selfish can you be when I’ve done all this work for you? All I want to do is help you get better.’”

I made a face. “Ah, this kind of game I have seen. The digs that such people say to others in front of you - and often in back of you, too - and the sad faces about how cruel you are to be so willful, and so on and so forth.”

Tal nodded. “One of the worst tricks was on our anniversary. She made plans to go out for the entire day ahead of time, but didn’t tell me until I came into the kitchen for breakfast. I’d gotten a nice gift, flowers, had plans to take her out for dinner, but there she was, all dressed in a nice outfit, ready to go out without me. She said that since I wanted to spend so much time with my furniture, then she’d remove herself for the day so I could. I can’t begin to describe all the nuances there were in that one – the sweet smile, her noble sacrifice, her bucking up in the face of my cruelty and neglect to want to do that on our anniversary. I begged her not to leave, that I’d had plans to be with her, which she just ate up. That set me up for the “no, no, I’ll tragically carry on in the wake of your selfishness” shtick. Then she sailed out and left me there. I had no idea what a masterful fuckover she’d just laid on me, but I knew how shitty I felt, that I’d been the one who’d bungled. I got the motorcycle out and went to my first street race. It was stupid, illegal as hell, and dangerous beyond belief. But I brought home a hundred dollars for my idiocy, so I kept going back. That pissed her off royally, but it’s hard as hell to think about how someone’s cutting off your balls when you’re dragging down a quarter-mile of asphalt at one-forty. It was my way to set it aside for a little while.”

“Why did she do this?” I spread my hands. “Just to be cruel, or did she want something?”

Tal shrugged. “When I found out that her so-called canasta games with her girlfriends had evolved into canoodling with her boss, I figured out that what she wanted was money, status, things. More than she had. So she’d typed me as a sweet guy who’d move heaven and earth to give her everything she wanted. And I did, for a while... but in case you can’t tell, I don’t care about social climbing, or status, or a lot of material things. I’m comfortable, and I’m able to put money by for the future, and that’s enough for me. I don’t want a McMansion, or a fancy car, or eighteen pairs of designer shoes.”

“So she latched onto this boss of hers, who might be more malleable.”

“That’s what I think, yeah. He can have her, and bloody good riddance.”

“Fuck, yes,” I agreed stoutly. “The divorce is final, yes? Good! I put a hex on her – let her rot in hell with her boss.”

I made a few complicated waves of my hand like Madame Simka had done when something exasperated her. She was not funny when she did such things, for she came from Roma stock, and everyone knew the Roma knew ways to turn the spirits against someone. Even if the spirits didn’t listen to me, it was still an impressive display, and if it returned some of the pain Sarah had inflicted on my innocent, then I was happy.

Did I say... _my_ innocent?

Oh, gods –

“... as I said, I had no idea about what was going on until after it was over. Then as I got a little distance, read some stuff, I felt so fucking stupid, Luka. So, so, stupid. How could I have let myself get roped in like that? How could I have let her isolate me so? She had me convinced that it was all me, that I hadn’t given enough, hadn’t done enough...”

Tal paused, and looked so ashamed that I wanted to put an arm around him for comfort. As that would likely not be met well, I resisted, and made do by leaning forward.

“What?” I said softly.

He exhaled. “She walked out, but I didn’t find out until later that she wasn’t done with me. I knew she’d dropped hints to my family that I was an ogre and off my rocker, because a couple of the dopey ones piled on to tell me what a shithead I was. Then my Mom got wind of Sarah’s rumors, and figured out what was going on. She and her two sisters clued in most of the family to what Sarah was really doing, including the adultery. That got back to Sarah, so she decided to confront my Mom in person. Bad, bad move – Mom ripped her a dozen new assholes, which flustered Sarah so badly that she more or less confirmed everything she’d done, and in front of witnesses. Sarah realized she’d lost the game, so a week later she served me with divorce papers, and never looked back.”

“Fucking hell,” I breathed. “When did you find out that your Mom had had it out with Sarah?”

Tal swallowed hard. “One of my aunts told me a couple weeks after Sarah moved out. They hadn’t wanted me to know, but it had turned into such an uproar that Auntie Sybil thought it was better for her to tell me than for me to find out at some family gathering. They’d meant well... but when I realized that my whole family knew what a clueless fuck-up I was, I wanted to fall off the face of the earth.”

“She could not have said that!” I exclaimed. “That you were a fuck-up? No, never! She said how formidable your Mom was, yes?”

“Eh, true. Mom's fierce when she wants to be, believe it,” Tal allowed. “I don’t know what she said to Sarah, but it must’ve been epic; I’ve never known anyone else to get the upper hand with Sarah. I appreciated her support, and my aunts’, I did, but... it turned my life into family gossip for the next fifty years, how I’m the one who married the narcissist and needed his mother to clean up the mess.”

I was so furious that I couldn’t speak. This wretched woman had stripped Tal of dignity and self-respect, and then made sure his family knew how she’d humiliated him. He might never let anyone get close to him again, which was a tragedy. He had so much to give, if only he could throw off Sarah’s cruelty.

“So enough about that. She’s gone, and I hope I won’t be that stupid again.”

“You were _not_ stupid,” I said firmly. “You are a caring person, and she is a leech, a vampire, a monster who used you. That is the sum of it.”

Tal offered me a faint smile. “I’ve got a ways to go before that sinks in.”

I waved my hand, taking in the room. “You will do it. You have your place here, your work, your family. You will heal.”

Tal looked away. Gah, I couldn’t let him suffer like this, not one second longer. I slid over on the sofa to poke his knee with a finger.

“You say I have been abused. So I have. But you have been, too. Roy and Sarah are two of a kind. They both leave bruises, scars. I have the easier job to heal Roy’s bruises because the physical marks will fade. You have the harder job because Sarah left terrible psychological bruises. You must remember this. Every time you blame yourself for what happened, that is one of her bruises. It’s wrong to blame the victim for being abused, so you must not blame yourself.”

Tal’s startled expression faded to consideration. “I never thought of it that way.”

I poked his knee again. “So now you can.”

“I guess so. But... I don’t like being a victim, Luka. That’s hard to swallow.”

“I don’t like being one, either. So we should both stop. What did you tell me? How you don’t like to shit on anyone, even those who have shat on you? How we should do something radical, make something good for ourselves? You are right. That is what we must do. We must wash off the shit. Become strong again. Ourselves again.”

Tal’s eyes warmed, his smile eased into a genuine one, and he leaned forward to poke my knee. “You’re a pretty smart guy, you know that? Thanks.”

As Tal turned the sound of the hockey game back on, I felt my cheeks warm. Gods, was I blushing?

Not just because of Tal’s gratitude – I’d been so caught up in Tal’s story that not once had I thought of myself. I’d felt sorrow, sadness, sympathy, outrage, then hope, all on behalf of someone else.

What was happening?

_Oh, gods, don’t let it stop._


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tal and Luka talk logistics, and make a plan for the day.

Luka and I didn’t talk much during the rest of the hockey game, but I had lots to think about. When my new roommate had called Sarah’s treatment abuse, he’d done me a great service. He’d said that her words had been blows, and that my shame and self-blaming were the wounds left behind. My feelings weren’t a measure of my inadequacies, but of the depth of my wounds. Nothing I’d read in a book had resonated as hearing Luka’s words had. I’d felt the force of his conviction in my bones, and I’d believed him.

How liberating was that?

I felt calmer, lighter.

I would still need an eon before I could look at a couple of ditzy cousins without hating what they knew about me, but Luka’s conviction made even that seem not so painful. What my ditzy cousins thought didn’t matter. What did matter was that Luka had offered me healing where Sarah had harmed. I could’ve hugged him, but given how careful he’d been to touch me only with his finger, I respected that. It was enough that we’d found more reasons to be friends.

When the hockey game ended, we cleaned up our snack dishes in companionable ease, wished each other a friendly good night, and then retreated to our rooms. I slept well, without dreams.

When I woke up in the morning, the strength of Luka’s words were still with me, and I felt more at peace than I had in some time. That was a gift I’d be happy to match, so I considered how best to do so while I dressed in flannel shirt and jeans. I’d just put the kettle on when Luka came into the kitchen. He had on a long-sleeved tee shirt, skinny grey jeans, and worn marl socks. Gods, he had the longest legs on the planet. His shirt was a medium blue, which highlighted his eyes, and gave his skin a healthy glow. He moved so gracefully – good, his ribs were healing.

“Morning,” I smiled. “You want tea?”

“Please,” Luka smiled back. His happy smile was so bright that it gave me a pang. Gods, Helen of Troy would die to look half so beautiful. “I will get out the plates and forks, yes? Or perhaps spoons – what do you plan to make?”

“I can do oatmeal, or eggs, or French toast, or regular toast, or –”

“So many choices!” Luka laughed. “You are the cook, so you make what you like. I like all those things.”

“French toast, then? Protein, but with a little sweetness to start the day?”

“Perfect,” Luka nodded. “I will watch so I learn how to do it.”

“It’s easy,” I said, and it was. Once we’d demolished the first couple of slices, Luka sighed in contentment.

“Delicious, and easy, as you said.”

“Glad you like it. By the way, I appreciate what you said last night, about Sarah’s words being blows and my feelings being the wounds. That made a lot of sense. It gives me something good to focus on. Maybe I can stop letting her get to me so much.”

Luka seemed touched, and he nodded thanks soberly. “I’m glad it helped. Neither of us needs to help the rats beat us up again.”

“Absolutely,” I nodded vigorously. “So while we’re on a roll, let’s think about what to do for you.”

Luka sat up straighter, and looked hopeful. “Yes, yes. Do you have any ideas?”

“I have some questions, if you don’t mind me asking them.”

Luka waved his fork. “Ask. Anything that will help, I will tell you.”

“Okay. Basic stuff first. Are you a US citizen? Not an undocumented immigrant?”

“I am a legal citizen,” Luka said proudly. “I have a birth certificate and a Social Security card in my box. That was one reason why I was so relieved to get my box from my apartment. It has all my important documents.”

“That’s great,” I agreed. “Any criminal record?”

Luka shook his head, then curled his lip. “None. I didn’t before I went to the Paradise, and I still don’t. Neeson pays off the cops, you know. That’s why the Paradise is never raided. In fact, I know that at least two undercover cops are regulars.”

“Doesn’t surprise me,” I admitted. “That’s great, too – no offenses. Oh, just to be fair, I don’t have a record, either.”

“Of course not,” Luka snickered. “Your motorcycle is faster than the cops’ motorcycles.”

“It might be,” I chuckled. “And you said you had your high school diploma, yeah? Any other classes or such?”

“For college things, no,” Luka shook his head. “For circus things, yes. I took tumbling lessons for ten years, and circus school for eight, and ballet lessons for five.”

I hummed. “That’s impressive. You’ll have to tell me how good a performer you are, though. I never saw your sets at the Paradise.”

Luka made a rude noise. “Gah, even if you had, it wouldn’t have shown you anything. It was a lot of humping the floor and lewd gestures. Disgusting. I’m glad you didn’t see it.”

“People seemed to like it,” I ventured. “You got a lot of applause.”

“Because they are as disgusting as what I did,” Luka snorted. “But as it’s said, it paid the bills. It is nothing I am proud of.”

“Ah, that’s something to ask – any outstanding debts?”

Luka shook his head.

“What about any contract with Neeson? Would you be in breach of contract if you left there?”

“I wouldn’t care if I was,” Luka replied, stabbing a bit of his French toast with his fork. “But no, no breach of contract. Neeson paid most of us under the table in cash, so if he wanted to short someone, he could, or if he wanted to throw someone out, he could. He wanted nothing that anyone could prosecute him for, or file in small claims court.”

“Hmm, that sounds like someone there at least considered doing that.”

“We all talked about how to take him down, but we all needed our jobs, so the talk was just that. I know little about the courts, but I heard what some of the other dancers talked about.”

“Okay. Um, no offence, but what about drug use?”

“No drugs. I wanted to save every dollar possible so I could leave the Paradise sooner, you see? Even if I wanted to do such a thing, I would not. It’s expensive, and if Neeson finds out someone has such a weakness, he uses it. When someone can’t pay him to keep quiet about a habit, he takes it out in trade. Who would want a regular fucking from such a pig?”

I shuddered. My imagination was too vivid to want an image of Neeson indulging himself in it –

Luka turned bright red.

Oh, gods – did he think I thought –

“Fucking hell, Luka – he didn’t –”

“N-no. Never. Never that. Something else.”

“What is it? Luka, please, I want to help, but I can’t when I don’t know what’s wrong.”

“This is nothing you can help. There is... something I must do. To be sure.”

“To be sure about... what?”

Luka didn’t quite shudder, but he was as taut as a bowstring. When he spoke, he spat out the words rapid-fire, as if he didn’t want to think about them. “I must get an STD test. Just to make sure. ”

I thought fast. “Oh, shit – because of Roy.”

Luka muttered a curse under his breath. “He was supposed to wear a condom every time. But I can’t trust that he did. The past month, he’s been...”

“It’s okay – I mean, it’s bloody well not okay what he did, but it’s okay about getting a test. We can handle that. Did you ever see him not wear one?”

Luka shook his head. “But I can’t be sure. Some nights... I drank to numb it out.”

“How much did you drink?”

“A lot,” Luka admitted. “Vodka. One shot a set was usual, but that’s not as much as it seems. Deacon – the Paradise bartender – waters what the dancers drink. Fifty-fifty. But the last month, I drank a lot more.”

I considered. “Unless you’ve got a stash in your room, you haven’t drunk a drop since you’ve been here, right?”

“No stash; no drinking. I’m safe here. I don’t need to be numb.”

I was gratified that Luka felt safe, but that was secondary – the bigger issues were alcohol and his need for the STD test. “So you’ve been cold turkey for the past week, and I haven’t seen any signs of DTs, or any other withdrawal symptoms. Have you had them and didn’t let on?”

Luka was quick to shake his head. “No shakes, no DTs. Gah, that stupid Deacon watered the vodka even more than I suspected.”

“Okay, the good news is that you don’t have any aftereffects from the booze. Even better, you don’t seem to want it, so you don’t have a dependency, right?”

“The joke is about Russians and their vodka, yes? But as I am only half Russian, the joke is not on me. I don’t need it here.”

“That’s great. So the STD test – it’s no problem to get you one. There’s a clinic nearby. We can go there today, and we’ll find out the results in a few days. If you’re clear, that’s terrific. If not, we’ll sort that out before there are any lasting effects.”

Luka looked chagrined. “You are unbelievable. I tell you this humiliating thing, that I might be infected, and you calmly go about how to deal with that.”

I grinned. “Someone once told me that it’s wrong to blame the victim of abuse. So listen to your own advice. This wasn’t your fault.”

The expression that Luka turned on me was the sweetest, most angelic blessing I’d ever received. If he looked at me like that too often, I’d start to think I could leap tall buildings with a single bound. Before I turned too red, I pointed my fork at his plate.

“Your food’s getting cold.”

Luka’s smile widened. He shook his head, and belatedly took up his fork to eat. “Okay.”

We took a few minutes to finish our French toast. Afterwards, Luka collected the plates to wash. I put the honey away and cleaned up the table, then brought the skillet to the sink. Luka took it, then paused.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“I have money for the STD test. You should not pay for it.”

“I can if you need me to, but if not, that’s good, too. Hey, that’s one more thing we should sort out. Do you have health insurance?”

Luka shook his head. “Of course the Paradise offers no such thing. I think I’m entitled to it, but I don’t know how to apply for it. I have no computer, and there was no Internet café or library that I could walk to.”

“No cell phone?”

Luka gave me a startled glance. “I have a cell phone in my box. I didn’t think to use it to call someone about the insurance.”

“You would’ve likely been on hold so long your battery would’ve gone dead.”

Another snort. “Very likely. I am so out of practice with the cell phone that I forget I have it. I haven’t used it much since I went to the Paradise because I didn’t want Neeson to know I had it. He would’ve found out a way to call me, which I don’t want.”

“Smart. I’ve got one, but I use it mostly for business. I’ll give you my number, so you can call me if you need to.”

“I’m sure my phone is dead, so I’ll charge it. And I will give you my number, so you can call me if you need to, also.”

“Ha, ha,” I snickered at Luka’s mischievous expression. “So about the insurance... I’ve got a computer. It’s not much of one, but maybe we can sort out how to get you some insurance. That might defer some of the cost of the STD test. Save you some of your stash.”

“I will need help. I don’t know much about computers.”

“We’ll give it a shot. I’ve got independent insurance because of my business, so maybe we can sort yours out like that.”

Humming, Luka handed me the scrubbed skillet to dry. “Maybe I should get the test and just pay for it. Not as many records?”

“I expect there will be records any way you do it, but you have a point. Oh, um, just to ask...”

“Ask, ask!” Luka assured me. “You try to help me, so I want to help you as best I can. We agreed.”

“Okay. I noticed that you haven’t gone outside at all. Maybe your old neighborhood made that problematic, but this one’s safer, and the back yard is fenced in. It’s no problem if you want to get a breath of air.”

“I don’t go outside much, no, and as you say, my apartment was not in a safe area. I looked like too much of a target. I haven’t gone out here because I don’t know the area. I don’t know how nosy your neighbors are, or if it would cause you problems if they saw me. I think we should be far enough away from Neeson that he won’t find me, but I did think of that, too. But I would like to do things differently.”

“I agree; Neeson’s not likely to turn up here. I haven’t been to the Paradise for a year, and I never talked to anyone there other than Deacon, and then only to order a drink, which I paid for in cash. I never told him my name. So Neeson doesn’t have anything to point to us here. As for this neighborhood, people are pretty much live and let live. I don’t think you’ll cause any consternation. No one will ask, but if they do, we’ll just say that I wanted help with the bills and got a roommate.”

“That will work,” Luka mulled. “It would be good to be out in the sunlight again.”

“We can go out today, if you’re up for it. We’ll schedule a test at the clinic on the computer, so you’ll walk in, they’ll be ready for you, they’ll take your blood, and you’ll walk out again. Pretty fast. Then we can hit the market. We’re running low on food.”

“I will pay some for the food. You have been the hero for long enough. I can help.”

Luka was finished with the dishes, so I tossed him my dishtowel so he could dry his hands. “I don’t want to eat into your stash, Luka.”

Luka dried his hands and tossed it back, but he looked pensive. “Yes. I should tell you. Because you have been decent and honest with me.”

I hung the towel on the fridge handle. “Tell me what?”

“I am not so bad off as you think. I have eleven thousand dollars in my box. So I can pay for my share of the food.”

My jaw dropped. “You have – holy fucking hell, Luka!”

Luka snickered at my astonishment. “See? I can do my part. You have given me a place to live, and hope. It is right that I help.”

“If that’s how much you saved up.... Gods, Luka – how much did you want to save before you left the Paradise?”

“I had hoped to have fifteen thousand. Because I would have had to move far away from Neeson, and move my things, and get a job, and I have no car to do any of that myself.”

I shook my head. “You’re amazing.”

Luka’s cheeks tinged pink again, and he waved a hand. “Stubborn, mostly, but not fatally so. If I you hadn’t been there at the Paradise last week, and if I had survived Neeson’s beating, I would’ve left, no matter what was in my box.”

“Is it all in cash? That’s a lot to keep lying around the house.”

“There was no bank I could walk to. And even if there had been, I didn’t trust the neighborhood. Why do you think I wore black clothes and good boots? So I could run the two blocks between the Paradise and my apartment without being seen too much.”

“Do you want to set up a bank account?”

“Maybe later. I don’t know much about them, or if it is wise for me. I think I should get a job first.”

“Fair enough. We ought to find a good hiding place for your box, though. I’ve never been robbed here, but given what happened to your apartment, we ought to take precautions.”

“Agreed.”

“First things first. I’ll get the computer, and we’ll see if we can schedule a blood test for you.”

Like everything else I owned, my laptop wasn’t fancy, but it was perfect for making appointments, doing my accounting, and occasionally reading news headlines. When I sat on the sofa, Luka sat close beside me to scan the screen with avid interest. I found the clinic’s website, and we were able to not only schedule an appointment, but also find the forms he needed to fill out for the visit. I helped Luka complete all the forms, and by the time we finished we could get ready for the appointment. Luka seemed at peace with the need for the test, and he bounced up to get his shoes and jacket for our venture out.

Smiling, I remained on the sofa to shut the computer down. It was good to see Luka so hopeful, so determined to move forward.

It was better to savor how close he’d sat to me, close enough that I smelled his hair, felt his warmth through my shirt. I’d been so tempted to lean closer, to slip my arm around his waist.

What would’ve happened if I had?

That gave me a lot to think about. Too bad it was all wishful thinking.


End file.
